


Save it for Tomorrow

by Pyrosane



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bittersweet, Developing Relationship, Gen, Niall-centric, One Shot, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrosane/pseuds/Pyrosane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall enjoys cooking lessons and Harry likes to go laser tagging. Or, that time Harry found Niall and Niall smiled all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save it for Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> This is a product of procrastination at 4 a.m., when I should have been studying but I was turning my life into a mess instead.

            It’s 3:39 a.m. when Niall’s phone buzzes like a symphony and he mutters _shit_ before ignoring it. He slides farther down black covers that never reach his toes, and wonders why the hell he’s so interested in keeping his chin warm instead.  
           

           When his phone buzzes for the second time, Niall swears he can hear stars exploding, and everything is blurry because his head hurts but he fumbles for the cold grip of the tiny machine anyway. It’s 3:52 a.m. and all he hears on the other end is howling laughter that definitely sounds drunk, but the line goes flat before he has the chance to play detective and figure out why he’s actually getting calls for once.  
           

           The rest of the day, his phone never goes off, but he does get a couple of texts asking for blood donations, and the odd e-mail or two wondering if he’s willing to sign this petition and that. The only reason he still has a phone, he concedes, is because sometimes on the metro, he needs something to do. He needs to pretend to be a man with a life, a busy day ahead of or behind him even though he’ll probably just be in jeans and an ugly sweater as always. It never helps that women old enough to be mothers throw tentative glances his way and giggle the same way they did a quarter of a century ago, when he was still young and beautiful.  
           

           Friday afternoon, the rain has slowed to a drizzle. Every light in the city is washed over, translucent watercolor blends like manmade rainbows. It’s at times like these he misses them the most, four names he will forever see as boys, all young and alive just like he was. And he regrets that he never got to know them any better.  
           

           Saturday morning, he’s cracking an egg over a new frying pan he’s been so eager to try out. He’s taken up cooking classes recently. An unwavering faith in food drove him to it, because if anything has remained absolutely true to him, it is his omelette and spaghetti. But damn, that phone rings for a splendid third time in a week, and he jumps enough to screw up his breakfast. He answers with an aggravated _hello?_ because his fingers are tangled in a raw mess of yellow. All he gets back is two heavy breaths and _meet me at the park! Havenway Fountain, three p.m. today. Bring all limbs!_ The line goes heavy again but this time, Niall stays on because he’s swallowing and swallowing but nothing is happening and _he knows that voice_.  
           

           He’s five minutes late. For the first time in a quarter of a century, he’s meeting someone, personally meeting someone, and he’s late. His mother didn’t raise him like this. And maybe it's because the digital numbers on his plastic yellow watch are slowly turning from :05 to :06, but there is nobody by Havenway Fountain and he feels a disappointment he hasn’t felt in years.  
           

           That evening, he gets another call and his chest thuds as he hits answer and waits for this unidentified caller to speak. After a few moments of silence, a frantic rush hits him, all _oh my god, I am so sorry, I was a bit late, seventeen minutes to be exact, but you were already gone by then! Not that I’m blaming you, I would have done the same thing, stupid me, how about now? If you’re free now, we could meet up-_  
           

           Niall hangs up. He only realizes his mistake after an overwhelming sensation of being, well, overwhelmed, and tries to call back but fumbles with his own hands and drops everything on neat tile floors. He knows that voice. Harry Styles. Of course. Of course, of course, of course.  
           

           In bed, Niall’s sheets feel colder than ever even though it’s been the hottest day of the year. It still surprises him, sometimes, just how warm the sun can be. From a small town in Ireland to the heart of London and now, a bustling corner of California, Niall knows he has grown old. He’s still called young by some, but it doesn’t help that he’s nearing mid-age and fearing a life crisis, starring himself and memories of graying hair once corn-yellow. To his relief, his phone rings.  
           

           He wants to ask how Harry got the number, but he remembers that this is _Harry Styles_ , boy extraordinaire who once helped a pretending-to-be-pregnant lady out of a greed for publicity and not a goodness of heart. And slowly, he smiles, and slowly, he grins, white teeth going gap toothed once again after years of professional neglect. His sheets turn comfortable when he nods and says _okay_ all too excitedly at Harry’s demands to take Niall laser tagging sometime, but turns sad when he remembers that they’re the only two left and the others are gone for good. If Harry has the same thought his voice never shows it, unwavering and talking about everything that is not what was once _One Direction_. But they do talk about the California weather and how the rains in San Francisco are nothing like those that were back in the UK, but they’re legally American now and hey, did you hear that the Queen is dead?  
           

           And Niall, Niall is happy.


End file.
